Sieze The Night
by Elizabeth Athineu
Summary: With the Volturi unsettled, the Romanians and an unusual army attack murdering one of the Volturi. A centuries old tradition to create works of art and slaughter the artists in a grand celebration grows closer for the Volturi as does war. A personal battle to revive his beloved brings Aro into a conflict he must resolve with something more than immortality . . .
1. The Home of Don Giovanni Vidasempi

**Chapter 1: The Home of Master Giovanni Vidasempi**

Lucy read the letterhead over and over again as the sleek car came to a halt in front of a magnificent building. She furrowed her brow and looked at the name and address once more:_** Don Giovanni Vidasempi at 1459 Bellasera Calle in Naples**_, Italy. She had once had family living in Naples, but of the numerous places her faded familia had traveled, she had never visited Italy with them. In truth, Italian culture seemed so overbearing and dull. As an artist, she fully understood its importance to the society of art and philosophy and even modern science, but she could not get past the 'pantheon of pedagogues' that she believed were at every turn of every century in the country since its Roman days. Perhaps it was the rest of Europe filling her veins that harbored disdain for the nation's classics despite its classical contributions. She shook herself and sighed heavily. The place was not familiar and neither was the name, but at least Italy had incredible food and enchanting music.

A servant, a man dressed in brown trousers, a white shirt, and a dark brown vest (clearly a testimony to local colour with his lovely olive skin and dark hair), raced quickly from the enormous house she now found herself staring at and he quickly opened the car door. He spoke the native tongue wonderfully, or at least, she assumed he did. Of all the languages that her familia had once been burdened with learning for the sake of interaction, Italian had never been one of her favorites and she had quite deliberately neglected to study it as often as possible. The servant closed the door, taking her luggage and loading it onto a modest, brass, cart and then led the way excitedly toward the villa. Lucy smiled and nodded at the man, trying to use Castilian and French together to decipher some of his words so that she could at least respond in English. It was useless, as he left no time to respond. The girl shook her head and took the opportunity, instead, to take a good long look at the villa that would serve as her home for the next six weeks. It was typical of many of the paintings and pastoral photographs she had been shown in magazines and artistic studies. Glistening white stairs leading past marble columns into a terra-cotta dwelling roofed with brilliant red tile and dappled with chimneys and weathervanes. There was a large, green stretch of land leading off from the left side of the house obviously used as a garden and a vineyard not far from that with enormous grapes already glistening on the vines.

She sighed and looked yet again at the letter as they walked up the steps. Vidasempi, the name alone was strange and added to it the idea that she had been able to find no information whatsoever neither via internet nor by asking locals via translator about the name or estate. The villa itself was a homestead that belonged to several different brothers of the same line (a name that she had learned was common in Naples and would be difficult to trace) and that each allowed an heir to dwell in it from time to time depending on how well they could suit the family's dedication to five virtues; wine, dancing, music, saffron, . . . and written word. This was the reason that Lucy had been 'hired'. Had it not been a childhood dream to come here under these circumstances, she might have sensed the unusual nature of the calling more than anyone. An executor of the estate had found her, 'lolling about aimlessly' as he had put it, at Southern New Hampshire University. She had written poetry for years and had been recognized every now and again by the right, but now it seemed that her writing had made its way far past any admiring afficionado or professor. She had known for some time that her work was available to some very small extent overseas, but this was unbelievable. She had been told by the executor that the current lord of the manner, a Don Giovanni Vidasempi, was seeking a contributor to the art of written word that could come and stay at the estate for a short time to both study and perform the craft. Lucy had been hesitant, especially not knowing anything about the family or what sort of poetry it was of hers that had intrigued him most, but found the romantic part of her existence far too drawn to be turned away. It had been common practice before dying in the Victorian Era for wealthy families throughout Europe to take in, house, sponsor, and even further an artist of the day. She looked at the large door and thought for a moment about what sort of person would be clinging to such an ancient tradition.

_Someone that must mourn the passing of time with a mind to celebrate the present_, she reasoned. _Obviously a person with too much money who realizes they can't exchange it for time_.

"Avanti!" the servant said excitedly and gestured for her to enter. She smiled and nodded once more, removing her sunglasses. The man said something else that she couldn't recognize that and began laughing excitedly.

Lucy stepped inside and looked around. The clean, white marble was meant to seem magnificent as it harkened back to the days of the senate, but Lucy found it stale and sterile all at once. It reminded her of looking at pictures of old physician's offices, very clean and very filled with ideas long past their edge. There were obligatory portraits, vases, marble statues, and plants lined the hallways with gold-edging and onyx bases for visitors to admire. Lucy admired them only for the briefest of glances and then looked toward the stairs. She wanted to see her room and the library for now and that was all. The servant shouted something and a few other servants, in similar attire and all around appearance came from different directions. Lucy could see that there were at least five hallways all leading into the rest of the house.

The first servant spoke quickly to the others. Three nodded and left the room while the other two joined the man as he took the luggage and began scaling the stairs, calling back to her. Using knowledge of context, Lucy inferred that she was about to be shown her room and she should follow. The journey through the halls after the stairs seemed just as splendid and jaded as the house below, but more dismal. The windows had all been drawn closed and over them, thick curtains had been pulled together to prevent any trickles of light from the aged sills. She stopped and, for the first time in the house, stared intently at one of the fixtures. The edging on the windowsills, where hooks for pulling back the curtains, were shaped exactly like something very familiar. She stared more closely at the gold oddment and realized that the artwork was as out of place as she was. "A Claddagh," she muttered. The servant closest to her turned and said, 'que'. She shook her head and turned back to him. "Claddagh, it's an Irish sort of ring," she explained as carefully as she could. The man frowned at her and stared at the hook as well. She sighed and tried to form the heart-shape with her hands. "Claddagh, it's a symbol for true love. Amore?"

The man laughed and nodded, pointing at the gold-work. He said a few more phrases in Italian and then gestured for them to continue. Lucy followed and turned to look at each window carefully as they moved. Sure enough, each curtain hook was graced with the same golden hands grasping a crowned heart. She wondered if this was the influence of a relative of one of the older owners as she entered the room assigned to her. It was grand, very comfortable and more lavish than anything an American girl who had been most recently living as a writer in a university had ever seen before. The image of the Celtic hands grasping the crowned heart was puzzling her too much to take any of this in. After the luggage had been delivered fully and the servants had finally left the room, laughing and speaking loudly to one another, she decided to go and have a closer look. She ventured out of the room and down the hallway a distance, looking at all the curtain hooks in disbelief. It seemed more than odd for such an old symbol from a country so far away to be here. Not to mention that the idea of Claddagh was more dismal and despairing than even the most ostentatious of the great Latin tragedies. She noted that one of the sets of enormous doors upstairs had been left open and the room was well lit by an electric chandelier. At the back of the room was an enormous window covered in the same drab curtains, but flanked on either side by a much larger version of the Claddagh. She slipped into the room, not opening the doors any wider, and hurried to the back to examine the gold-work more closely.

She brushed her fingers tenderly over the edge of the crown and stroked down to the lifeless fingers of the still hands. Leaning closer, an almost saddened expression crossed her face. The Claddagh on this side had the heart's apex facing downward. She glanced toward the other, noting that it seemed to be in the same position. She stood upright and took a step backward. "This couldn't have been a happy edition to the house," she thought aloud. She looked over the symbol and felt somewhat of an ache as the fantasies of what could have prompted such artwork in the villa so far from the lovely, sorrowful otherworld of the Emerald Isle. She sighed heavily. "Seeking true love, all of you are pointing away from the heart. That must have meant something awful for the poor guy that commissioned them."

"It was not a man that commissioned them," a new voice announced from the other side of the room. Lucy jumped, gasping silently, and turned to face the new edition to the room. The man smiled, and she was sure that by his trim and pale appearance that he was the master of this villa, Don Vidasempi. He had both hands folded neatly behind him, clothed in a dark blue suit trimmed with white gold. His dark hair was lengthened past his shoulders, but neatly pulled back at the parietal portion into a small braid that kept the rest neatly settled over neckline. He smiled, an odd smile, and moved a step closer. He gestured toward the Claddagh and smiled; a reminiscent smile that almost seemed fond of the symbols. "Do you know that some of the greatest pens that have ever written for many nations ventured here to take in the charm of the Vidasempi?" he asked, as if thinking that such a thing would have been common knowledge for her. She shook her head and appraised him more carefully. There was something about him that seemed too comfortable with his own presence and yet painfully excited. "Not all of them were famed, mind you, but she . . . she was noted in her own country and in this villa for many a passionate stanza. Perhaps you know of Nuala Ni'Domhial?"

Lucy gazed back at him, surprised that he was able to pronounce the name with its necessary Celtic flare and an Italian softness all at once. She studied him a moment longer and then nodded. She glanced back at the Claddagh. "She was so well noted even in the Catholic Church that they built a whole cathedral in her honor to the north of Belfast," she replied. He smiled more excitedly, a look that she recognized from instructors as that of an older generation eliciting a universal parental joy from a child's recognition of information. She gazed at him in concern, realizing that he seemed to be studying her in return now. She gently touched one of the curtain hooks and cleared her throat. "She wrote about the Claddagh, several poems. The legend says that if the apex is pointing upward then the person who wears the symbol has found true love, but if the apex points downward or away then the person has not found true love and is seeking it."

"And the seeking of true love seems awful to contemporary poetess?" he asked softly, seeming to tremble with eagerness for the answer. Lucy shifted uncomfortably, but seemed more intrigued with his reactions for the moment. While he might have seemed a little off putting and far too wistful, she also understood that Italians were vastly different from the people of New England. True, the man did not have nearly the same accent as his servants, nor did he appear in body or clothing like them, but he was obviously tied to the region deeply by blood. He grinned and extended a hand toward her. She noted that his fingers were curled ever so slightly. A gesture that she had been taught from childhood meant that he was refined. Her own curiosity pressed her to reach out and take his hand, a typical greeting from formal days of yore. As she carefully placed her hand in his, she saw his eyes widen.

Perhaps it was the jet-lag, but his eyes seemed to shift from ice blue to carmine red for a beat as he closed his fingers around her hand, pressing the pads of each digit gently into her palm as if probing for something other than formality. He slowly drew her hand up to his mouth and, leaning forward, kissed the back of it with a tenderness she had never felt before. It almost chilled her to feel something so soft from something so foreign. He lowered her hand and, instead of releasing it, clasped his other over it, tracing the fingers of the other hand gently over the sinews gripping her carpals to her wrist. She breathed cautiously, not sure of what the depth of this display truly was. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, a flash of brilliant red yet again catching her attention. She closed her own eyes for a moment, trying to center her vision as he kept a focus into her eyes. Lucy shifted, realizing that he looked as though she had removed several layers of clothing just now while he was still grasping her hand. Simultaneously, he seemed to be seeing something fulfilling, something purposeful as he gripped her. It bothered her all the more that the grip seemed so terribly strong, but was so very gentle. He breathed deeply and took a half step closer to her. "You have been seeking more than words, more than poetry, for a very . . . very long time."


	2. Tradition and Provocation

**Chapter 2: Tradition and Provocation**

Aro, now rather enjoying the thought of his most recent nom façade as Giovanni Vidasempi, walked gracefully back through the tunnels, meeting his personal guards and striding hurriedly back to the grand gathering chamber where Marcus and Caius awaited a report. In the central portion of the catacombs beneath Naples, the three spent night during The Feast of Blood here to confer with one another and address any concerns brought before them. Caius, impatient and still youthful in appearance compared to the other two, paced back and forth anxiously while Marcus sat and waited quietly, very still, for his friend. Aro had once killed Marcus's wife in a fit of indescribable rage, but the older had never known enough about the incident to have forgiven him. Didyme had been more than Marcus's mate, she had been Aro's sister and the most endearing member of the group to vampires and humans alike. In the end, Aro ha wrongfully blamed the 'necessary kill' on the Romanian Coven. The anger that arose over that led to a great war and soon after what was left of the Romanian vampires were divided into two small covens with the fear of the Volturi left behind in their wake. The ordeal had been presently magnified in irony when Aro's wife had been murdered in front of him by the Carpathian Coven. He had been unable to protect her as the small group of vigilantes that formed their own coven answering to the Carpathians, managed to stage a formidable attack on the palace and tower in Volterra. They tore her head from her body, tore her limbs away as well, and then set her ablaze. Nomads, a great number from untold regions in numbers none of the Volturi had ever expected, held them back; they had been outnumbered at the time and beset upon by a group simply wishing to make a statement . . . a declaration of war. Almost as quickly as Aro's beloved had been murdered, the entire attacking coven had vanished.

Marcus had simply watched, disheartened by the sudden display of emotion from Aro as he had wept and wept, cradling what had been left unburned; his wife's hand. Her hand; he had always loved her small, soft, tender hands. She had been blessed with nimble and well-groomed fingers that managed to exhibit just the right amount of pressure on his head as they had laid beside one another on his magnificent bed, long before he had sentenced her to imprisonment with Athenadora for safety's sake. Caius had been loath to agree and before Corrin had been sent as comfort, Aro had been told that Sulpicia wept for him the first few weeks, begged for him the next few, grew more quiet with pleading for a few weeks, and after a few months of cursing him as loudly as she possibly could in every tongue he spoke, he finally sent the messenger of comfort. With the imprisonment, he had not been able to say goodbye and her ennui made her slower and listless compared to Corrin and Athenadora. Part of him felt as though now he had killed part of her that led to her eventual death, doubling his personal guilt. How he missed the soft strokes of her fingers through his dark hair, the cupping of her pale palm around his cheek, the gentle caresses she administered on his shoulders as they made love. He had tried everything, every proper means and every ancient ritual to revive her with the remnants of her hand, but nothing had worked. It was as if some foul curse from one of the Nomads had also been used and preserved the hand, but kept any further recovery from occurring. It tore at Aro's heart each time he saw it like a fallen Sword of Damocles, slicing mercilessly into what little tenderness the immortal still kept within himself. Tears filled his eyes and he fought away the memory. The girl had brought something back to life in him that Marcus had warned him about, but perhaps that was nothing compared to what the girl could bring him.

The enormous doors swung open allowing the most powerful member of the Volturi to enter and nod to his companions as he folded his arms behind his back. Caius froze and turned to him while Marcus rose slowly and looked deeply into his friend's eyes. A wry smile crossed the old vampire's lips. Marcus had never remarried, but had tried to offer comfort to his ex-brother-in-law and told Aro that he would find the same love some time soon which Aro had taken to mean that his beloved would soon be brought back to him. Marcus had even made an impromptu and improper visit to the Cullen Coven to speak with Alice to see how he was to revive his beloved, but Aro had received results far from what he had desired even in touching Marcus's hand. The young vampiress had giggled and had shaken her head, only muttering the words

"And you claimed you never knew such a thing existed. And of course it would be a young woman, a fragile one. She'll have no interest in him at all, you know," she had said when Marcus had begged her to focus on Aro's future which he knew for a fact that would not be spent alone. Marcus had been the only person willing and truly able to even attempt to have comforted Aro until he had begun distracting himself fully with this new academic obsession.

The days were growing close to the oldest of celebrations that the Volturi had initiated starting back during the Renaissance itself and took place only every 20 years. Aro remembered well, as did Marcus, the first slew of artists encouraged to create and all sing their swan songs as they were led to a bloody slaughter amidst an ornate masquerade. The Volturi had long accepted the concept that human art was unique and precious in that it reflected a passion driven by such desperate shortness of life. They had also long accepted that artists were at their most popular and understood long after their deaths. The ceremony brought together a treasure trove of young performers of many types of art that the Volturi favored, each allowed to select a few of their own, to archive their works, and then kill them in order to ferry them most quickly into fame and away from the cruel and often tumultuous life a long-lived artist would suffer. The rest of the coven would revel in the festivities; the music, the décor, the masque itself, and of course the bloodshed. It amused Aro that artists were now so well prepared to nurture their talent at younger and older ages, giving a greater selection, while simultaneously losing some of the passion of days past; unwilling to starve or roam the streets writing on boxes and napkins just for the passion they harbored.

He stood at the center of the room and cleared his throat, looking at either companion with a forced grin. Marcus allowed the smile to fade after having sensed all he could of the feelings Aro had for her. Aro gestured for the two to move closer to him. Caius rolled his eyes and moved forward. Marcus smiled and fluidly walked toward his friend until he stood not far away, nodding in return. Caius groaned, upset that he had been forced to move an inch in a direction not of his own choosing. Aro ignored this. He had always been quite good at ignoring Caius which made operating among the Volturi tolerable and effective. Marcus was always amused at the slight irritation that Aro's calm nature brought to Caius while Caius's cool veneer with an explosive angle buried trembling beneath his surface. The two were opposites and yet obviously linked in mind and spirit.

"I do believe that she is the last of them," Aro said excitedly. "The others have settled into their own villas in the surrounding areas; as usual, they simply think they have been called back to the ancestral home of knowledge in the form of artistic expression. They will neither see one another regularly, which will feed the artist's natural selfish nature, and neither will it pique their interest in so many being gathered."

"Then the rest have already arrived and been settled?" Caius asked scornfully. He himself had only been allowed to select two artists; a painter and a sculptor this year and neither were of as grand renown as he wanted and had become accustomed to in the past. Aro chuckled and gave the younger a look of condescending pity, all of it feigned. Caius scowled in return. "Their peace of mind is, after all, most important at the moment as the day draws closer. I do hope all of those simpering stanzas have not clouded your vision, Aro."

"Vision cannot be clouded with literature, Caius, only enhanced," Marcus interjected quickly. Aro turned to him gratefully and smirked. The oldest in appearance of the three breathed deeply and glanced back toward the door. "It would be wise to see that the poets and speakers are set to rest as well as kept somewhat at an unrest for their creative needs."

"We are immortal, not flawless," Caius corrected angrily. The two looked at him with disdain as he continued. "Time might be lengthened for us, but its worth remains the same as does the imperative nature of building our forces against the Carpathians, the Nomads, and their allies instead of this foppish tradition, Aro."

"I detest that term, brother, do not use it again. They are all of them human, Caius, so is she. The last one, I'll admit, is somewhat of a fragile little girl, really, but that changes nothing in the ceremony. Traditions must be heeded," Aro reminded sternly. In truth he thought about Alice's words and wondered if this choice of his, this young woman was the key, the secret in reviving his only love. He turned gracefully back to his brother, folding his hands. "They will have time to rest and a little more time to get used to me before anything can be accomplished. Once the ceremony is completed and we are restored heart and soul . . . we will amass our armies tenfold and drive that Carpathian filth back into the ruins where we should have burned them," Aro corrected. Caius scoffed at this and tuned away. Aro sighed and lifted one hand out toward him metaphorically. "Besides, this last edition seems a little, uneasy. She needs to 'sniff' me first and make sure I won't kill her. Something in all humans, no matter how drawn they are, senses that their lives are in jeopardy in our presence."

"Then you must work hardest to keep your disguise as healthy as possible," Caius said firmly. He looked at Marcus once more and then back at Aro. "If there is no real news, then I must return home for now. I will make my own frivolous contributions, but mark my words the ceremony should come later. My wife is fretful after all of the Carpathians' threats we have received. She is rarely ever wrong about her premonitions."

Marcus glared at the youth, knowing well that the last sentence had been meant to act in place of a dagger aimed at Aro. The look on Aro's face showed a triumphant blow to the vampire's spirit. He swallowed hard and watched the younger leave. Marcus shook his head and looked back at his friend as the doors closed behind Caius. "Your instincts have never led us too far from what has always been right," Marcus said softly, soothingly. Aro nodded in agreement, still not convinced enough of his own instinct to be completely comforted. Marcus gently placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You will have plenty of time and all of those chosen, yours especially, will have much to offer us."

"This, I know." Aro sighed. He turned away from Marcus, allowing the man's hand to slip off his shoulder and fall to his side. Aro rubbed his head pensively, still keeping the memory of his wife at a good, safe distance from his heart. "I shall just have to be patient. I must uncover what needs to be revealed and to create what is necessary to undo their treachery; we will be united once again and then we can enjoy all eternity to its fullest. The girl will be important . . ." he said trailing off into a whisper. "I pray that I will have some greater vision granted me, something to reveal what must be overcome."

"You are already overcome," Marcus commented with a smile. He turned to leave the room as well, but Aro did not turn to watch him. The older grinned and grasped the handle of the door, nodding to Aro's guards. "But she is not."


	3. Forks and Fine Wine

**Chapter 3: Forks and Fine Wine**

Lucy entered the dining room and looked around. The table was of a decent size for a wealthy Italian family, but it seemed too full for this hour. She had been told by her aunt that the people of Napoli didn't fill the table with food until every person, including the servants, in the house was ready and at the table. So far, she seemed to be the only person present and the table was set with food and candles all glowing with a warmth that seemed to be waiting for just one other person; the steam even seemed to be hesitating and awaiting the arrival of another, more important, patron. She furrowed her brow and inched toward a seat at the middle section of the table. She sighed and looked down at the elaborate silverware set in the same position that the neurotic propriety her mother had instilled in her told her was essential for a well-laid table. She strode calmly to the next setting, still going over the sight of Don Vidasempi and his strange mannerisms. His voice, it had seemed like a hovering spirit that was both penetrative and patronizing all at once. He wanted to soothe, but he wanted to be superior as well. Then there were his eyes. Large pupils, almost as large as a lion's, but the colour of the irises were what had seemed strangest. They had the tinge of the typical eastern European icy blue, but there was something else behind them. She could have sworn that they seemed almost maroon, like there were swollen, red vessels behind them giving his eyes a carmine hue.

She gingerly stroked the large, ornate V carved into the handle of one of the forks. The shape of the letter and symbols around it would have been described by one of her friends who carved blades as being 'Vivaldi' which was ironic considering her current location and the almost Baroque atmosphere of the villa itself. As her fingers brushed softly over the endmost point of the letter, she remembered the odd sensation that had moved through her when Vidasempi had taken her hand. In fact, it had seemed like taking her hand was the whole reason he had entered the room to begin with. She recalled how gently, how carefully he had held her hand and the change in his eyes as her blood had pulsed through her wrist. It had felt at the time like he was trying to feel each pulse, to touch each and every drop of blood as it moved through her. She suddenly noticed that one of the forks was misplaced, exchanged in the place of the wrong utensil. She lifted it gently and furrowed her brow. It was well known by more than just her family that the Italians were a passionate people, but he seemed eerily intent on every fiber of her presence, drinking it in slowly and fully as if it were wine. She glanced at the table and noted a bottle of wine lying in a large container of ice. Her eyes widened as she clearly saw the date on the bottle; 1797. That must have not only been expensive, it would have been difficult to acquire. The bottle's label read 'Casa del Vidasempi Circa de 1797, Carpe Vidasempi!'

Still holding the fork, she read aloud, "House of Vidasempi, year 1797, Seize eternal life." She gripped the fork and heard a loud noise behind her. She gasped and turned, watching a cat race through the diningroom with a servant running after it shouting 'vete' vete' gato' as she ran. Lucy smiled and shook her head then turned back to the setting. She gasped yet again and, without thinking, accidentally dropped the fork 'upward'. Before the utensil could hit the floor, the reason for her outburst deftly reached out and grabbed it in mid-air. Master Giovanni Vidasempi grinned and breathed deeply, holding the fork out toward her. She cleared her throat and straightened herself. "I- I'm sorry, I mean, Lo siento, Signore'," Lucy stammered. He chuckled at the odd combination of Castilian and Italian and smiled at her. She shook herself free of the eerie feeling his smile was giving her. She kicked herself for not having studied Italian more and being able to converse in it as freely as the Spanish used so often at her position with the University. She anxiously smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and coughed once more. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you." She frowned and looked at him more closely. "In fact, I didn't even hear you come in."

He chuckled again and reached out, placing the fork gently in her hand. She shuddered as his fingers curled around her own once again. Now it felt like more than blood was flowing through her veins. She was sure at the moment that she could feel . . . her _thoughts_ running through her veins again? She tried to withdraw her hand, but his gentle grasp was still far too firm to break free from. He smiled and breathed deeply, commanding her with each of his movements to do the same. She felt oddly compelled to be calm, but her instincts still told her to keep her guard up. He took both their hands, grasping the fork, and gently laid the fork in the place it should have been.

"There now," Aro as Vidasempi said. She looked up at him inquisitively. He smiled kindly. "It's right where it should be, my dear."

"Uh, yes, thank you Signore'," she muttered, still trying to move away. He allowed her to move a little further away, but kept a hold on her hand, gently stroking her palm this time. She shuddered as the soft stroke of each pad slightly tickled her hand. He seemed to notice this and smiled more brightly, almost seeming to feel the pleasant sensation himself. She breathed deeply and turned back to the bottle. "Uh, Signore', your family name . . . it's very lovely and odd, but more lovely." He nodded, not breaking contact with her eyes as she tried to keep her eyes more free than the rest of her presence. She shook herself and tried to continue her train of thought seamlessly. "Um, it . . . it means 'eternal life'. I remember that from what my Latin lessons taught me, but I'm curious as to why your family's motto would be 'seize _**eternal**_ life' and not seize the day or seize just life or something."

The man laughed loudly, more loudly than Lucy had heard his voice at all this day. She jumped a little in surprise at this and then felt curiosity take its place. He leaned closer and fluidly took the bottle of wine in his free hand, holding the bottle between them. He glanced down at the label, the first time he had looked away from her at all in her presence. When their gazes met again, Lucy began to tremble, noting that his icy blue eyes had turned even more maroon, practically red. He leaned forward and set the bottle back on the table, placing the cold hand that had touched the bottle under her chin. "Because anyone can seize life," he explained gently. She sensed a proud strength past the soft tone and it impressed her. She smiled in return as he continued. "Only the bold and courageous can seize immortality."

Lucy frowned at him. "My family always believed that facing death brought courage; immortality would be cowardly in that sense," she corrected. Aro's eyes widened and his nostrils flared, now Lucy was sure that his eyes were red . . . blood red. He looked angered for a moment and then the anger faded into complete amusement, as if he had just heard a fond jest he had not heard in years. He inched just a hair's breadth closer and looked most deeply into her eyes. He smiled and looked over her entire form once more, noticing something for the first time, though she wasn't quite sure what it was he was seeing. His mouth seemed to be trembling as she looked back. "I believe that _nothing_ lasts forever on earth . . . only those things in the realms beyond."

"How very like a poet," Aro said in nearly a whisper. His eyes washed over her once more. He smiled brightly and shuddered inwardly doing his utmost to control himself. "To think of the worlds beyond; to speak of them as if traversed. Something I have always admired about poetry, the writer's voice seems to come from some celestial radar. Their very material surpasses ethereal and ventures into . . . eternal. I suppose you would find that an exception to your family's rule?"

"Poets write about eternity and its place after life," she corrected softly. He raised one brow, impressed with this onslaught of answers. She inhaled and took a step back. "They don't revel in the thought of 'living forever' or 'embracing immortality' any further than becoming one with the cosmos or joining the host of heaven."

"Then perhaps you think my family's motto too . . ." he lowered his voice, nearly growling as he finished the sentence, " . . . carnal."

"No, just different," she said carefully. The two stood silently for a moment and then Lucy turned to her seat. "I'm so hungry and tired. I haven't traveled like this in a long time."

"Of course," Aro said quickly and backed away, folding his hands together. "I must apologize, my dear, but I cannot join you this evening. The servants will dine here, of course, but I'm afraid I have too much to attend to at the moment. Affairs of the estate and all."

Lucy nodded and watched as he turned to leave. He seemed giddy and overwhelmed with joy as he walked from the room, a trail of energy following after him that was almost palpable. The servants soon filled the room and the girl realized that several minutes had passed since she had spoken with him. The candles, food, and wine hadn't seemed to have aged a moment; steam still rising from each dish, flames dancing from tall wax, and the ice in the container still the same as when he had first entered the room. She sighed heavily. There were too many strange things happening today to try and compute them all in one night. She was already fatigued and this had to have been some sort of illusion. She took her fork in one hand, staring at it intently as she remembered his hand around her own. _His hand_, she thought. _He feels more than just my skin, more than my pulse . . . he feels my life_.


	4. In the Shadows of the City

**Chapter 4: In the Shadows of the City**

Night fell quickly over the city of Naples. While the pace of the city itself had already been considerably slower compared to the more westernized life Lucy was accustomed to, even in the laid back and calmer portions of New England, now it seemed as if the entire population was halting and giving a great sigh as the cool air gently urged the warmth of the day out over the sea and bid it a pleasant farewell. Lucy watched from a large window as the sun seemed to set in a matter of seconds with the cloak of night sweeping around the shoulders of the horizon beckoning the gazes of every citizen, particularly the poets, to turn upward and scan each and every inch of the illuminated sky as the stars appeared. They reminded her from this hemisphere and angle of the vineyards themselves. Some stars were large and succulent, glowing with plump white luminescence that shimmered as if filled with nutritious food for the soul of a weary artist. Then there were, of course, the smaller and sweeter stars glowing with only tiny twinkles and ready to make a wine that would slake the thirst of a painter who had spent their blood throughout the day in sweeping thought after thought and sentiment after enthused sentiment on any one or many canvases until the Eye of Phoebus had finally set.

Lucy finished jotting down the last few words, Eye of Phoebus in describing the sunset and star-rising. She sighed heavily and leaned against the edge of the window, pressing herself against the soft curtains. Their thick velvet was enough to act as a cushion for the moment and while the wonderful meal and long journey had made her quite tired, she felt oddly compelled to stay awake and continue to jot down segments of verses or entire lists of images that came to her. Lucy was not a fan of cataloging with her poetry and had even gone as far as to write an entire essay filled with contempt for Walt Whitman in introducing the world to what she considered the useless concept of cataloging, but she did use what seemed like something similar in order to brainstorm and keep track of her compositions. Not all poems came together all at once and not all poems were completed after being written once, after all, and these lists of metaphors and elaborate as well as eloquent descriptions made composing more beautiful works that much easier. She finished the last sentence adding the date, time, and her location alongside her name; Lucy Darcella Camloe. She softly closed the writing journal, bound in thick, quilted velveteen and bearing a silver clasp with her initials, a gift from her mother. She strode slowly back to her chambers, still admiring the finery and nodding politely to the servants as they lit candelabras and wall lanterns in the hallways (hanging light-fixtures that were obviously fed by gas-lines throughout the mansion). She opened only one of the enormous, ornate doors leading into her quarters and sighed heavily as she closed it behind her.

She felt so small here and something within her made her think that she was meant to feel small, meant to feel weaker. Ever since receiving the invitation to begin with, she had been plagued by a nagging sensation that there was some sort of darkness looming over the whole situation. The opportunity and the opulence it implied pushed that intuition aside as firmly as possible and Lucy had said nothing to her father about the quasi-premonitions lurking in her subconscious. She walked over to one of her largest pieces of luggage that had been brought here hours before and opened it. She had spent so much time taking in the villa and jotting down bits of future poetry and prose that she had forgotten to unpack. At the moment, her toiletries and nightclothes were all that mattered. She could finish unpacking in the morning when she wasn't so exhausted.

"What on earth?" Lucy exclaimed with a gasp as she opened the trunk. It was empty. She flung back the lid and hurriedly felt around the bottom making sure that the dim light wasn't playing tricks on her. She gasped and began to look through the other luggage she had brought and found them all empty. Lucy's heart began to race and she felt a swell of panic surging through her pale skin. She raced over to the large wardrobe, closing her eyes and breathing a small prayer. Perhaps the servants had unpacked everything, she told herself. Calm down, there wouldn't have been anyone here that would've robbed you like that. "Please don't be empty, too," she prayed aloud.

As she opened the door to the wardrobe, her heart beat a little slower and her senses became more at ease. A number of her things were in the wardrobe hung on fine wooden hangers with golden hooks. Shoes were arranged neatly on shelves at the floor of the wardrobe and she could tell that the drawers off to the side held undergarments and other accessories. She smiled and breathed in the intoxicating scent of well-treated cedar. It was positively heavenly and so rare in the places she was used to living or visiting. She also noticed that there were several other items, gowns and night dresses that she hadn't brought with her. She furrowed her brow at one of them, a pale yellow gown, as she pulled it towards her and looked it over for a moment. She admired the cloth and the flowing shape, but scoffed a little at the colour. Lucy didn't like yellow. In fact, she didn't care for gold, either. It was too gaudy, too bright, and gold itself had a violent history and arrogant connotation. Silver was her metal of choice; known for purity, womanhood, and simplicity. Lucy hurried to the bathroom adjacent to her room and made sure that the cupboards had been stocked with the rest of her toiletries. She stared in disbelief at not only the numerous soaps, moisturizers, beauty tools, and make-up that she had brought along, but also a large array of perfumes and other vials, bottles, and phalactries of what she assumed were colognes. She closed the cupboards and shook her head after retrieving her tooth brush and the tube of paste that went with it. They seemed almost out of place here, as if the villa itself needed no tending and the master himself was above something as trivial and base as brushing his teeth. His very movements were like dancing and the rest of his mannerisms were as refined as any royal or nobleman . . . or so she assumed. Lucy had never met someone with a title as grand as Don Vidasempi, but she had never really had the desire in the first place and now she could understand why. She felt smallest, most vulnerable in his presence.

"You're just intimidated by his heritage and money, that's all. Everyone knows that aristocracy doesn't have any real authority anymore in Europe, it's just something they cling to for history's sake," she reminded herself aloud as she strode back to the wardrobe and selected one of her favorite sets of pajamas.

She pulled out her bathrobe with it, wrapping it around herself as she glanced back at the bed. Four, large posts with a billowing, lavender canopy. The room's colours were pastels that harkened back to the colours of an English garden and Lucy wondered if these rooms hadn't been decorated by artists who had come before her being so well coordinated and lovely. She slipped into the pajamas, folding her clothes neatly and setting them into the hamper before pulling the robe around herself and heading back into the bathroom to finish her bedtime regime. She finished cleaning and the moderate preening she did every night and then sat down on the edge of the enormous bed with a sigh. Down, she realized. It would be comfortable, oh so comfortable, but she wasn't sleepy just yet. True she was tired, so very tired, but something called to her to keep her awake for now. It was irritating at the moment and she couldn't just zip down to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk or chamomile tea as she could at home. She sighed and rubbed her head anxiously.

"This is nice," she observed aloud, trying to convince herself that it was nice enough to make her sleepy. No such luck. She thought for a moment and then decided that she might need to get a little more of her creative energy used up. "That's what usually keeps me up," she reasoned aloud. "I'll just write down a few more things and walk the halls nearby for a minute or so."

(*)

Aro waited patiently in the hallways, pacing slowly. He had given the girl a sense of unrest, projecting the pseudo-insomnia as best as he could for the moment. As much as he had been told about his last selection for an artist, his personal selection that would serve as his personal indulgence during the feast of blood, he knew so very little about her past. That troubled him. Any other victims he could care less who they were and from whence they hailed, but the artists that were chosen for this ceremony were different. He felt it as necessary as reading the footnotes of a classical book to know these victims. How could one truly appreciate their creations and savor the lifetime of passion in their blood when the time came if they knew nothing about their past? He watched in anticipation as the door to her chamber opened and she slipped out. There was a small book in her hand and a pen as well. He smirked at this. Never without her tools, very much a creative soul at its peak. He slipped behind a set of the lavish velvet curtains as she grew closer. He ceased moving as she hesitated near the window a beat. Had she noticed him? Even with his speed and stealth had she noticed him

(*)

Was someone just near the window? Lucy stopped and stared at it for a moment. A slight breeze stirred the hem of the curtains, but their weight kept them in place for the most part. After several moments she shook her head and continued to move forward. She wandered the nearest halls, four of them, glancing into the various rooms that weren't closed off and jotting down a word or two about some of the décor or the angles of light that she saw. At the end of the fourth hall was a large pipe organ. Lucy gasped and marveled at it. She approached it carefully and softly touched the fine gold edging. Cherubs and demons fighting for their place at the top of the organ were carved delicately into its sides. She sat down on the bench, letting her journal and pen drop mindlessly to the floor as she stared in awe at the keys and levers. She had been fascinated for years by the organ and harpsichord, instruments unusual for her era and home, but their sounds were anthems of more beautiful centuries, of more elegant places. She had even taken the time to learn one and only one song on the organ as a teenager when she had made regular visists to the cathedral nearest the university. She glanced from one side to the other and then smiled. No one was nearby and surely even with the servants readying for bed she wouldn't wake anyone with playing just a small tune.

(*)

Aro followed her swiftly and silently, marveling at what seemed to draw her attention and wondering if she saw more of the divine in the simple or if she was simply looking for simplicity in the divine. He watched as she entered the room containing the old organ and hesitated. It had been many years, many many years since he had been in this room. The girl reached out and began to softly play a tune. The tune was familiar and old, very old. The vampire could remember the very year in which it was composed and how unusual it had sounded to him even then. The Little Fugue, it was called, and when Johann Sebastian Bach had composed it for the organ he had no idea that someday it would be a tune more captivating to a vampire than anything composed by the other great musical minds of his day. Aro walked slowly towards the girl as she proceeded to the second movement. He noted the journal lying on the ground and picked it up, glancing over her words, name, and date. He gently stroked the pages, the ink having already dried, and took in the incredible combinations of things as simple as language that created something as complex as literature. Camloe, he read, that was her last name. It stemmed from the name Lovel which he knew to be a powerful title indeed, but much further to the west. As the girl reached the end of the third and final movement he stepped back and placed the journal on a table with the pen neatly on top of it. When she had finished he smiled brightly and clapped as any master would for its pet performing so marvelous a trick.

Lucy gasped and turned. Her hand fell onto several keys at once making a horrid whine from the organ as she awkwardly leapt to her feet and stood behind the bench, staring at him. "D-don Vidasempi," she muttered. "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"That would be impossible, my dear, I rarely ever sleep," he said smoothly. She stared at him in confusion and concern as he smiled back kindly. "It is rare that anyone from the Americas plays so well such an arcane instrument as this one. At least rare for anyone who is not dedicated to some religious service."

"Oh, it was more like a partial hobby, something I just learned for the fun of it. I never learned any other pieces and I could never really play key instruments," she admitted, slipping out from behind the bench and hurrying over to where her journal lay. Odd, she thought, She was sure it had fallen beside her on the floor. She didn't remember putting it on one of the tables. She grasped it tightly, almost protectively, and bowed her head to him respectfully. She was still a little more than uncertain about the protocols in this situation and it was out of sorts to be up this late in one's pajamas anyway. The well-refined Don was still in his platinum-trimmed suit and looking as regal as ever. He smiled in amusement at this and took a step closer. "My hands are too small."

Aro's eyes flashed with delight and he reached out quickly, taking the hand that was not entirely necessary for holding the book and gently cupping it in both of his own. He looked it over and the memory of Sulpicia's hand flashed in front of him. His breath quivered for a moment and his grip on her hand tightened only for a second. Lucy considered withdrawing it, but watched him silently instead. He sighed and gently folded both his hands around hers for a moment before looking back into her eyes. Lucy shook herself, still sure that she could see a potent maroon behind the blue in his eyes. "They might be smaller than most musicians," he observed. "But I can tell from your, skill a moment ago, that they are quite nimble."

"Thank you," Lucy replied uneasily. Aro grinned more brightly and held out his arm, placing her hand neatly over the bend opposite his elbow, and placing his other hand over hers as he led the way out of the room. "I'm so sorry. I know it isn't proper to be out in the middle of the night like this and all. It's just that I . . ."

"Oh as an artist I am quite sure you are accustomed to the unusual, to the unique," he interjected. Lucy looked up at him in surprise. He had so fluidly taken her hand and she had willingly followed. Odd. He hadn't asked her or announced that they were leaving, they just had. She reasoned that it must've been her exhaustion and the novelty of being in the presence of something so grand. He smiled, stroking the back of her hand against his arm as he felt her thoughts and confusion moving through her. "You must be terribly exhausted, but even in such a state I see that you had much to pour out onto parchment before you could achieve any rest at all. That is expected as well, I suppose."

"I guess," she muttered, still trying to put all of this together in her head as he walked with her back down the hallways and towards her chambers. Lucy froze and gasped as a servant, or at least what she assumed was a servant since he seemed unlike any of the others that she had seen before, suddenly appeared in front of them. He was dressed entirely in black in clothing not dissimilar to Don Vidasempi's but clearly less important in standing. The man turned to Vidasempi with a combination of fear, anger, and predominant urgency on his pale features. He bowed his head quickly and Lucy suddenly felt the hand over her own grow more cold and tighten at this new presence. It seemed to irritate him, though she couldn't be sure why.

"My Lord, your presence is needed at once," the servant said nodded sternly and then nodded to one side, signaling for the man to exit at once. Lucy frowned as the man standing beside her seemed to emit a chill and it permeated every part of her.

He sighed heavily and pulled her hand away from his arm, holding it in both his own once more. "I trust you can find your own way back to your quarters. I do apologize for the intrusion," he said fluidly.

"Sure," she replied quickly. "M-matters and affairs of the estate."

"Precisely," he replied. He bowed his head politely as he released her hand. "Goodnight, then, Miss Camloe."

"Goodnight, Don Vidasempi," she replied.

She turned, gripping the journal tighter and hurrying back to her quarters. This wasn't altogether frightening or too strange, but that nagging undertone of angst was growing stronger each time she felt him touch her. He was cold at most times and that alone was unsettling. Aro watched her as she hurried away, angered that perhaps the arrival of the messenger had rekindled any fears she might've had. All the good he had done in getting her more enthralled by his presence and it would be ruined by such interruptions. Whatever pressing matter this was it had better have been good or someone would pay dearly for it and Aro knew exactly who owed the debt.


	5. Caged Dreams

_(((Okay, after some awkward and begrudgingly done research, I have altered some of the wording of the first three chapters so that it ACCURATELY reflects the events surrounding the lives of Marcus and Aro. I can only imagine how afraid Aro is that he'll slip up and think about it in front of Edward . . . or has he? We'll find out soon enough. This chapter is a little look at the interaction between the three and the most prominent member of the guard that I think would be a little changed after the crisis in Forks. Enjoy the journey!)))_

**Chapter 5: Caged Dreams**

Hurrying unhappily back into the chamber where the catacombs met, flanked on the one side by the slight and charming Demitri and on the other by the newer addition, Vincent, who was already beginning to regret having been the one sent to deliver the message, Aro entered the room where Marcus stood looking down at a book with less enthusiasm than a melted snowflake. Caius looked up and nodded to Vincent who stepped aside and mouthed a silent prayer that having obeyed the most vicious of the ancient leaders would be enough to prevent Aro's unstable scheming and Caius's delight in the macabre and masochistic. Demitri met eyes with the enormous Felix who stood nearest to Marcus. Caius stood holding a piece of parchment and was oddly guarded by the coven's most prized members, the witch-twins Jane and Alec. It was no secret that Aro had delighted more in Jane's company than any of the others since her recruitment and had not felt the same way towards her brother, a notion that sparked silent scandal that the unofficial voice of the coven had seen fully only in one individual and they had suffered for it. Caius sighed heavily and raised his hateful gaze towards the vampire even he had to inwardly admit was 'master' of the coven even if he had been granted the equality in the endearing title of 'brother'.

"Didn't your mother tell you not to play with your food?" he asked with a tone of scorn.

Aro glared at him. "Brother, you have been particularly difficult to deal with these past months. Something is troubling you and you have yet to speak your mind," he stated flatly. "Is this something you wish to discuss?"

"You know perfectly well what troubles me," Caius retorted. This burned beneath the other's skin deeply. Caius had always been the only one bold enough to be vocal about any disagreements he had with Aro's decisions or actions. Since the crisis in Forks, it had escalated even further and it made the younger wonder if Chelsea's hold on him wasn't slipping because of some sort of threat. "You've allowed us to look weak too many times this century already, and now you're insistence upon this ridiculous tradition will force us into ruin. And for what? There is no real creativity left among their kind."

"Is that all?" Aro asked with a bored sigh, glancing back at Vincent with a disturbing grin. Vincent straightened himself and looked away, frowning. "You summoned me to tell me your disposition is as pleasant as always?"

"No, I have not," Caius replied with an angry snort. "If you have quite finished for the evening with your prancing then perhaps you might set your mind to something more pressing. There is a great deal of trouble that has been stirred in the underground even here. What do you think that means for Volterra?"

"I think it means we would have heard something from them should there have been any dilemmas," Aro replied casually. Caius glared at how calm and collected the understood alpha had become. It was a ruse, of course, even those that couldn't read minds could see the raging sea of mixed emotions hidden behind the vampire's naturally milky red eyes. It was a display of strength for the rest of the coven; Marcus had mentioned that when Caius had sounded off in their brother's absence months ago about his desire to march against the Carpathians, the new gathering of a very old enemy. "Perhaps you might be so kind as to explain why this gives you cause for alarm," Aro said smoothly, gliding up next to the youthful, but much older Caius. He held out his hand to which Caius sneered and turned away. This only served to stoke the fire between them further. No one refused Aro's hand, no one. In truth, most of the coven thought this might have been what prompted Sulpicia to marry him and not love at all. His nostrils flared, but he made no gesture further as the older whirled back around a safe distance away. "You are out of sorts, brother; perhaps the journey has taken a greater toll on you given your aged position compared to the rest of your loved ones."

"There is more at work than the Carpathians," Caius continued. "I have been told that one of our neighbors to the south is a long way from home."

"And who would that be?" Aro asked, moving a few steps closer. "Surely your informants haven't more to tell than mine," he added, giving a harsh gaze in Demitri's direction.

"It is impossible that I should know as much from mine as you do," Caius replied, gesturing to his friend with both hands. "But perhaps your senses are dulled in eliciting truth instead of expending too great an effort on sentiment."

"You worry about my current state?" the younger asked with feigned amusement. Caius frowned at him. "How touching."

"You underestimate me, old man, you always have," Caius retorted proudly. "There is an Egyptian here as well."

"With the nomads or the local Romani, no doubt," Aro added sharply, still angered over the other's behavior, words, and continued unpleasantness. "It is not uncommon for our kind and we have already given laws regarding interactions with that particular . . . ethnic group. They are not unaccustomed to dealing with our kind and we rarely find ourselves in danger because of them. That is the power of numbers."

"No, by himself it would appear," Caius replied. "And he is not unequipped to face the elements alone."

"Perhaps he was impressed by our gracious display and wishes to join us and our longstanding tradition of bringing peace in the name of the law," Aro offered. His mind now began to fizzle with the possibilities of having the one he knew Caius referred to in their ranks. Benjamin, part of Amun's coven when they had visited the Americas. He had a greater gift and talent than Aro could've ever dreamed of in manipulating the elements. "We once extended the invitation to Amun to join us for the festivities, perhaps he simply comes out of curiosity and with noble intent."

"I believe he is here to see someone in particular," Marcus offered. The two turned in amazement at the sudden words from their companion. He rarely spoke even when spoken to for very long, but to interject was unheard of. His senses were far reaching and, like Demitri, could reach across the miles if he had a good understanding of the tenor of another's mind. Benjamin's presence had intrigued Marcus more than anyone present as, like Carlisle, he somehow seemed to feel protective of every creature present on his side as well as the three ancients themselves, truly fearing a confrontation that might have pitted anyone against one another and feeling sorrow for Irina's loss despite not having known her. "He seems affixed on you, Aro."

"Delightful!" Aro exclaimed, not only feeling the sensation genuinely but reverting back to the sunny mannerisms that seemed to be the most effective punishment for Caius at any offense to his authority. "He does wish to seek a place among us, he must! I knew there would be too great a desire in the powerful ones, the truly powerful ones. It will not be long before there are at least two more, I think, come wandering about to see if we will accept their gifts."

"Does any of this not seem improper?" Caius said angrily. Aro turned back to him with a firm stare. "Had he been curious about joining our ranks or attending this charade you insist upon donning every two-fifths a century? He would've sought us out in Volterra had he wanted a place among us and had he been accepting an invitation he would have sought us out here by now."

"He fears us, fears a loss of freedom," Marcus added. "And being unable to see Amun ever again."

"What a dreadful thing to think," Aro replied with exaggerated indignance. "We have never denied someone the opportunity to see those that are dearest to them!"

"That's not what is being said among the lesser," Caius corrected. Aro once more turned back to him. "Why do you think there was so much willing resistance there in the forest?"

"A good thought to be sure, brother, but he will make a good example of our true capacity to forgive," Aro replied. The last word seemed to have slammed a dagger into Caius's chest and he snarled hatefully, inwardly, at his unspoken master. "We are not only to be feared. There is a measure of respect and love that must be within all those that are bound to our laws."

"Respect cannot exist if we allow ourselves to flee more than once," Caius interjected with a sharp look towards Aro. He was more resentful than any time before at their retreat from Forks. Even being shown to have no gifts that Aro could sense made him less irritated, it would seem, than this shame he perceived. Caius glanced over at Jane and Alec, then back at their creator with a scoff. "And love follows fear only if obedience is to be rewarded."

"Have some compassion for the less fortunate, brother," Aro corrected, once again using a word choice and tone that he knew was more painful to the palest of the three than a branding iron. "We must not forget that we have been terribly blessed to have such lovely company in our midst and that those in the lesser regions are struggling to find their own happiness."

"Your sentiment is nauseating, Aro, and mark my words one day you will regret . . . " Caius began hotly.

Aro suddenly appeared less than a hair's breadth in front of the other, glaring angrily. Alec felt compelled to step away as Caius remained in place, glaring back. "Regret is choice, Caius, not a curse," Aro corrected. "Though the actions and words one chooses could feasibly lead to regret without allowing for any time to think." Caius drew in a slow, deep breath and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder prompting a look of confusion from Aro.

"I know you miss her, brother, we all do," Caius replied softly. "But loitering about with a human you only know about because of that sham of anthology that Demitri lifted from a frenzy, which he has been chastised for in times past . . ." Caius added giving Demitri a hateful glance as well as if placing some of the blame for their presence on him as well. " . . . that will not replace what you lost with Sulpicia. You must avenge her for the sake of your immortality."

"Vengeance is hardly suitable unless properly thought through and we are not yet ready to make war when our traditions beg for us to reflect," Aro interjected, moving away from Caius and shaking his head slowly. "There will be time enough for vengeful warring when we are restored heart and soul. Was that not the purpose of the feast in its first days?"

"There is no nourishment to be had in false revelry, especially a scorned widower," Caius replied in nearly a whisper before turning to make his way back to his villa. It was difficult for Caius himself to interact with any of those chosen by him, or for him as was the case this year, due to his less than charming disposition, but it was always an opportunity for a number of the others to take his place and fine-tune skills regarding their ability to hunt. This year it was Felix's turn to make sure neither of those selected ran off screaming or left in a huff. Felix frowned a little and followed him, motioning for Alec to accompany him. Aro watched in strained silence and glanced back at Vincent who suddenly realized that his party was leaving. He hurried after them as Caius called back in a level tone. "But at least if you acquire one more for your collection it will not have made this entire façade an exercise in futility. This is out of my hands, Aro."

"Thank goodness for that," Marcus muttered, still glancing over the book as Aro turned to him. "He has never been as attuned to the finer things."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of refinement, old friend," Aro replied with a grateful smile. "You yourself said that he was always of a finer sense than I was in his vision."

"That was before I knew him as well," Marcus confessed, setting the book down. "And before I knew you as family."

"Do you find this as futile?" Aro asked with genuine concern. Marcus sighed and looked towards his friend and once his brother-in-law with a saddened stare.

"I can see the fear in his eyes at the thought of suffering as greatly as we do, my friend," he added slowly. "He has never lived without Athenadora, not as one of us. Then again, I had never truly lived until I had been with Didyme. It is strange how that part of us still lives after our deaths, is it not? And stranger that we can die a more painful death again if it is taken from us."

Aro felt his breath leave him at his friend's words and he looked away for a moment. He missed Didyme terribly and the guilt that plagued him was pushed aside only by convincing himself that it had been the only way to ensure their survival and protect the others that were dear to them, dearest to him. Jane seemed to notice this and took a step closer to him in concern. Marcus sighed and shook his head as Aro tried to find the best response to such heavy words. "I suppose it is in the nature of any creature with a heart whether it beats as warmly or otherwise," he said, folding his hands neatly to keep the memory of Didyme from forming a full circuit to move through him entirely and overwhelm him. He tried to concentrate on the memories and thoughts of the new addition that was potentially before them and the thought of the succulent months of nearly courting another lyricist as passionate as Sulpicia and any number of other lovers that had attracted his attention over the years had been. "But we must concentrate on the fortnight ahead. It will be spectacular to have this respite, will it not?"

Marcus moved even closer to his friend and spoke quietly. "I considered refusing to mourn," he observed, looking down at the younger sadly. "But I was, in the end, faced with her loss in all manner of ways."

Before the older could speak, Marcus turned and swept out of the room with his own personal guards. Jane and Demitri approached Aro and waited for him to move. They had quarters in the house, hidden well within some of the walls. The secret passages were lined with portraits and books and, on many an afternoon or evening during the festival, music filled the hallways as well. All in all, it was one of the most solitary and pleasant places for an immortal to be. Demitri waited more impatiently than Jane. Caius had cited that his acquisition of human contraband had sparked the bringing of Aro's last choice, but Demitri had a gift not only for seeking individuals, but talent as well. He had been quite taken with every verse and knew his master would be soothed by them to an extent. Though most of the guard stayed out of obligation and sway of Chelsea's power, Demitri and the twins were an exception. The twins genuinely both feared and adored their masters, particularly the voice that led them. Demitri genuinely adored his surroundings, finding the streets and catacombs of Volterra more barren and lacking than Aro had intended. Here, in Naples, he felt at the height of his immortality in watching the arts and trends rise and fall. He favored Venice, for obvious reasons, but Naples was nearer to the heart of a lovely skyline that drew more of the full-minded to it. It was as close to the ocean as they could be without being on the trail of something serious. The three moved quietly out of the meeting room and into the hallways. Aro was deep in thought and Jane, made the more concerned about her place beside the elder by the absence of her brother, gazed at him unfazed.

"I do believe this will be one of the more important festivals we have ever celebrated," Aro said with a sigh.

"Provided it does not lead to something unpleasant," Demitri said with a frown. "I would hate to interrupt good company to deal with the uncultured Philistines that spawn from that hellish region."

"Language, Demitri, please," Aro corrected. Demitri turned to him in confusion. Aro quickly reached down and took Jane's hand in one of his. "There is a young lady present." Demitri smirked and bowed politely, apologetically to both. "You are excused for the evening. Go and make your rounds until called upon." Demitri nodded and disappeared through one of the passageways. Aro sighed and placed Jane's hand on his arm as he had done with Lucy, a gesture that meant he was in need of comfort or trying to comfort another in her experience. She looked up at him in furthered concern as he looked back down at her with as calm and genuine a smile as he could offer.

"Master?" she asked softly. He stopped and looked down at her as gently as ever. "May I ask you question?"

"Of course, my dear," he said, placing his other hand under her chin. "You may ask me anything you like, you know that."

Jane looked away for a moment and then frowned. "That night, why didn't you allow Alec and I to fight? Why did you tell us to stay away?" she asked. In days past he had been eager to send the two to spread fear and had even begun allowing Caius to send them to other regions as well. Presently, however, he had seemed loath to allow either of them, but especially Jane, out of his sight even before Sulpicia's loss. He seemed to fear something that no one dared address and, without his gift of insight, they could not discern from the surface.

He sighed and took both her hands in his, looking deeply into her younger, glistening eyes with their crimson glow. "I suppose," he said sadly. "As terrible as it was to lose Sulpicia, it would have been a greater loss to have either one of you harmed in the least. She would have agreed."

"Of course, but we are capable," Jane offered, seeming a little unsettled that he might be afraid for her even if it meant some sort of deeper connectivity.

"I know you are, dear one, both of you," he said. A flash of the image from the vision flew across his mind. The enormous black wolf, Alec's demise, Jane's shrieks and pleas for help . . . He shook himself. "But you are also irreplaceable and the Carpathians have more dealings with dark forces than we do. They are more apt to do us harm than we are to harm them and permanently so."

"Yes, master," she said and looked away again.

A twinge of sadness moved through him at her words and resignation without finding much solace from him. He felt an emptiness move through her, the thoughts of being separated from her brother. It was always difficult to send them in different directions, but she allowed herself to show it more readily in his presence. Still very much a child, he realized. He had wanted to wait a longer span before their transformation, but fear and ignorance had driven the coven to act more quickly. He still remembered holding her trembling form in his arms as she fully turned not unlike a father at the birth of his child. That thought pained him quite possibly more than anything. Of all the things he could surround himself with to make him feel like the royalty he deserved to be, entertainment, protection, power, even a wife, he could not have children of his own. That was quite probably the deciding factor that had prompted Aro to decide against destroying Renesmee and he had hidden the raging jealousy within him well. A thought came to him as they moved through the hallways and he could faintly hear the sounds of the human's breath and heartbeat quickening in dreams. He longed for that as well and had come quite close in the shock that had met him upon his mate's demise. He squeezed Jane's hand a little tighter and nodded towards an entrance. She slipped into the secret passage and disappeared from view as he watched. Yes, as painful as Sulpicia's loss would have been the loss of either of the twins, his little ones, that would have ended the world. But the world hadn't ended and while Lucy slept unaware of the seething world of creatures that she had wondered willingly into, the night passed on painfully more slowly for the creatures that could not dream.

"I wonder," he thought aloud, trying to think of something more pressing than loss. Alas, in this somber state, for which Aro blamed Caius entirely, it troubled him that Jane still called him master in more private settings when he knew well that she longed to call him something else. "I wonder what measures I might have taken that would have led you to call me _father_ instead?"


	6. Forgiveness and Fond Thirst

**Chapter 6: Forgiveness and Fond Thirst **

Lucy found herself in a strange series of dreams, wandering through the hallways of the estate she had barely seen. She was seeking something, but she didn't know what it was. In the back of her mind she knew that it was an image of some sort, perhaps a portrait. Halfway through the strange dream she remembered the writing journal and her mother's portrait. She found herself frantic in the dream-state and turned to hurry back to her room to retrieve the portrait. As she managed to make her way through the labyrinth of strange hallways and back to the one that led directly to her quarters, she found that Vidasempi suddenly stood in front of her. She let out a small cry, but he seemed to be as calm and cool here as he had been standing beside her at the table. He fluidly moved forward and took her hand now dressed in very dark attire, perhaps black, but still a formal suit and sporting the coat of arms of his family on a golden amulet hung by a thin metallic strand around his neck. She looked up at his features and found that the fleeting carmine red was now a brilliant milky crimson. She gasped as he caught her by both hands and stared back down at her with a hunger that frightened her. He reached out and touched the side of her cheek, allowing his fingers to slowly trail downwards on her neck until they rested on her collar. A familiar smile crossed his bright, red lips and his pale skin seemed to light up as she had not yet seen.

"You look positively radiant," he said in nearly a whisper, taking her hands in his. "Where else might you be going this evening, Sabasha?"

"Sabasha?" Lucy exclaimed. She turned and looked at the mirror in the hallway. She recognized the face of Vidasempi and the other as well, but it was not her own. She gasped and pulled away from him, staring deeply into the mirror in horror and amazement both. Vidasempi moved to stand behind her, grinning brightly as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Impossible . . ." Lucy whispered. She reached out and lightly stroked the image in the mirror. As the cool, glistening surface met her fingertips she felt a strong cool wind rush around her and the dream faded. Lucy sat upright, panting heavily. She grasped either side of her head, eyes still wide and trembling. Yes, she had recognized the face and the name that Vidasempi had spoken. She closed her eyes as they swelled with tears at the familiarity of it. "Sabasha . . . _**mom**_." She suddenly felt another overwhelming urge to lie back and sleep despite the obvious disturbance. She laid back and hoped that sunlight would come and wake her before another dream like this one still haunting her.

(*)

Demitri finished his rounds and strode calmly through the inner halls. It was rare that he felt so at ease and bold in a new place, but here he was inundated with the life-force of the creative souls meant for part of the slaughter. He had found the night of the blood-letting itself to be trite compared to the anticipation and gathering momentum that occurred in the fortnight before.

He sighed and made sure that Aro was nowhere nearby and that he could easily make his way through the proper part of the estate. It was lovely to be at peace with his surroundings and so intrigued by them as well. Being the tracker of his coven meant that Demitri often saw the world, but in a more dismal sense as he hunted either a fleeing criminal or a potential threat. Here, he had freedom and the promise of a chance encounter with a rare spirit or two. He passed by the room where Aro's last guest slept. Demitri remembered well finding the small book of poetry on a victim from one of their last feedings before preparing for the Feast of Blood. Demitri had found the lyrics pleasant enough and presented it to Aro in the hopes that it would act as a balm to prevent the same soul-draining illness that had crept in and crippled Marcus in the absence of dear Didyme. Of all three masters, Aro was the one most feared and adored; his wrath was more permanent though less cruel than Caius, but his favor was genuine and always so lovely. Demitri slipped into the room, glancing around to be sure that Jane wasn't watching, either. Satisfied that neither his master nor his master's greatest weapon were anywhere in the vicinity, he moved closer to the bed. A surging thirst suddenly moved through him and the scent of her body even at rest, the slow and soft inhales following every ethereal exhale made him fill with greater hunger than he felt during the frenzy. Still, he had to maintain control. If he lost himself in thirst and came even a fraction close to biting and tearing into this succulent spirit, his master would have him replaced and then ruined entirely. The burning hunger he felt now would be nothing compared to the flames that would surely steal away every trace of his tangled limbs.

"To think that there will be the chance to see your demise only from a distance," he pondered aloud. "That truly is a sadness for any of us privileged to know you these next few days . . . I could do it now and be sated of blood for a thousand years from the apt poise in your spirit and the substance of your word-craft."

He told himself to remember those words and write them down. As fascinated as he was with poetry he had come close to becoming a poet himself and those breathed syllables were nothing short of poetry. He leaned closer, practically intoxicated by this scent and the sound of her heartbeat. Oh yes, it happened rarely that a mortal's blood caused such a personal stir in a vampire, but Demitri knew well that artists bore a certain appeal all their own and simply attributed his pangs to her unique creativity. Surely there was nothing here similar to the cravings that had been described to him in being faced with a human that bore either a branch of a vampire's destiny or the potential for a mate with them. This must have simply been infatuation with newness and renewal from the horrors left behind in Volterra these past months. He leaned even closer and felt her breathe a deep sigh, growing very exhilarated by the second. His heart trembled and thundered even in its frozen form. It was growing impossible to not pry apart her veins and flood his senses to their fullest with her blood. He straightened himself, fearing that he might do something that Aro would make him regret for a great deal of time. He turned and slipped back out of the room as the sun slowly began to rise over the Mediterranean horizon. He quickly made his way back to a secret entrance and forced his nostrils to fill with the distracting scent of aged paper and stone, hoping to soothe away the urge that would have most certainly showed his soul in his eyes to the mortal. Aro would be able to see anything in the girl's mind the next day and, even though he himself was cautious and cunning, she would not know to hesitate in showing him any anomalies she saw.

He stopped and sighed for a moment. "If only I hadn't suggested your presence here," he thought. "I could have sought you out for myself had I known the lust you stir in every fiber of me."

(*)

While Lucy rose, dressed, and found her way to breakfast, Aro found Demitri and told him to find and retrieve Benjamin who was clearly in the area. Demitri had done so within a few minutes having Felix at his side and finding Benjamin most willing to follow. He withdrew a sealed envelope from his shirt as the three wandered the subterranean passageways back into the central room where the masters waited for their newest addition, or rather acquisition, to arrive. Benjamin seemed more at ease than Aro had expected and more willing even a great distance away from Chelsea at the moment which unsettled Caius. The most ruthless of the three knew well that Benjamin's staunch sense of right and wrong protected him from easily changing his mind and it had been quite made up in Forks. Benjamin approached Aro and put a modicum of distance between the two, bowing his head politely. Aro grinned brightly and gave a triumphant glance in Caius' direction. Caius fought away the urge to step forward and demand to know what Benjamin really wanted.

"I am glad to have found you, all of you, so quickly," Benjamin said with a genuine smile to all three before turning back to the central founder. "I came to deliver this to you, Aro."

The immortal watched as Benjamin handed him the sealed envelope. He accepted it in confusion and then noted the insignia made in the wax that sealed it. It was from the Olympic Coven and, judging by the handwriting that spelled out the voice of the Volturi's name on the front, it was most certainly from Carlisle himself. Aro quickly unfolded the paper, handling every edge and corner neatly and affectionately, touching his old friend's seal with regard. He sighed and looked down at the parchment for a moment, contemplating what must have prompted such a gesture. He stared down at the words as they unfolded in front of him.

"_Aro, _

_My oldest friend, I send my deepest condolences and sincerest of sympathy for your loss. I was told that you did not assault nor send any of the guards to destroy the assailants for being so overcome. I cannot for all of my years and experience ever know what you feel in this state or felt in the very moment of her loss. I am compelled to forgive you after such a display of humanity and would like to offer my shoulder to lean on and a willingness to listen as well as offer any comfort you might require. Please know that should any need arise that any of my family might meet to make the bearing of this burden easier to bear do not hesitate to call on us until you have had sufficient time to collect your bearings. I pray that you will call upon at least my offer, a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen to anything you might need to say now that she watches you from a distance. Beautiful Sulpicia's loss was devastating to your friends and I send my family's regards as well, particularly Bella and Edward who reacted so strongly to the news that I wondered for a moment if they were quite themselves. _

_Tears, so many tears, have been shed on your behalf and I wish to convey only the warmest of embraces to you during this dark time. I can assure you that things will continue to exist and change for you, but until they have changed for the best I know that there will be nothing to replace or to console you entirely. I have sent Benjamin here to deliver this message, though you should know that many offered. Your acquaintance is beyond treasured and I will always be your friend, regardless of what befalls either of us. Please consider carefully all the effects of our actions and our friendship when making a decision regarding war and discord. Your coven and the rest of our kind look to your grace as an example to follow and all decisions should be made with deepest sobriety and reflection. I know that you will make a good decision, it is always your way, and that it will reflect on your courage and affection for your family as well._

_Your Friend Always,_

_Carlisle"_

Benjamin waited patiently, the only one in the room not glancing at all the others present in confusion and concern, as Aro stared at the parchment long after reading it. He breathed sharply, gladdened by the fact that he had clearly regained Carlisle's friendship but devastated once more by the reminder of his loss and that this was the proof that had drawn the enigma that was the leader of the Olympic Coven back into a bond with the founder of the Volturi. Humanity? He hadn't pursued the rogues or the Carpathians because of fear, both for himself and for the rest of his beloved guard and brothers. Carlisle had assumed that the incident in Forks had changed him magnificently and while Aro decided at once that it was best to not send a correspondence to correct him, he knew more than ever that Caius was right and that the reputation of the Volturi was set firmly on the line. Measures had to be taken to ensure that their presence was seen as both immutably powerful and immensely just. He looked back at the Egyptian and nodded.

"I take it that the rest of those that call him friend as well still remain with him for now?" Aro asked cautiously.

"I was the last to leave," Benjamin replied. "Carlisle believes that it is safest for us to not overpopulate the region. The presence of the Quileutes for one and the population of the cities nearby as well."

"I see," Aro said softly. "Seeing as you were the last to speak with him, I would like to discuss the gathering more this afternoon. I have other matters to attend to for the morning, but I shall return before noon."

"I will gladly wait here. There are a few concerns of my own I wished to speak with you about directly," Benjamin added. He seemed far more seasoned and experienced than someone that had been kept in hiding for so many years. It intrigued the two principle founders to think that he was a naturally powerful spirit even independent of Amun. He nodded to Aro as he nodded to Demitri and Jane and gestured towards the farthest door.

The three hurried back out of the room and towards the main entrance used to slip in and out of the villa. Aro tried to compute Carlisle's words and Benjamin's presence as he walked. Above in the villa, Lucy still tried to compute the dream. Demitri tried to force away the thought that he would be near the source of such sweet irritation once more and ignore the urge to expose himself in his master's absence. All of the beings in the villa itself seemed unsettled inwardly and struggled on some level to find a central balance for their minds as the day began. Little did any of them know that such turmoil was also waiting patiently in the outskirts as the Carpathians kept their scouts at a safe distance and well-hidden. Before long, whether those within the villas were centered and at themselves or not, they would be faced with a more intimate disturbance from without and within.


	7. Singing in Riddles

_(((The paragraphs are longer because the story is more detailed, but I see what you're saying. As I live to create and not to please another I will not change the length of my thoughts, but I will make expressing them more succinct so as to include all minds that want to enjoy this! Thank you for the suggestion and your support! Carpe Noctem, everyone!)))_

**Chapter 7: Singing in Riddles **

The morning meal introduced Lucy to the routine that began every morning at the villa. Vidasempi was away with matters of his estate which was just as well since Lucy was still quite shaken by the dream. She fidgeted anxiously with the silverware throughout the morning until the table was cleared and she wandered into the halls once more. It seemed odd that Vidasempi had not yet given her a single commission to work on yet. It bothered her that the man had seemed more inundated by the needs of the manor when it seemed very well run and exceptionally efficient for someone's summer home. She sighed and slipped back into the room with the organ. She glanced over the gold work on the sides of the ornate old instrument. The dream about her mother had made her the tiniest bit homesick not merely for the small but well furnished home she and her father shared not far from the university, but also for the life they had been blessed with before her mother's death. She reached out and gently stroked the side of the organ, reminded of their trips to the larger cities like New York for vacations. The organ was reminiscent of the beautiful central instrument in the 'Phantom of the Opera' that she and her parents had seen four times on Broadway. She sighed and smiled as she thought about how infatuated she had been with the play so much that she had begged for voice lessons in the hopes of meeting a mysterious 'angel of music'. Here in this strange old villa she felt as though she were back in the midst of the child-wonder she had known so many years ago. She drew in a deep breath and began to softly sing the simplest of lines she remembered.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while; please promise me you'll try_," she sang. A tear formed in her eye remembering her mother's beautiful voice singing it to her as a child. Her voice began to quake as she finished the lyrics. "_Then you'll find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free; if you ever find a moment spare a thought for me_."

(*)

Striding carelessly through the hallways behind the walls, Demitri did his best to soothe himself having scarcely fed. It was a tad more difficult to have their food brought to them in the catacombs beneath the villas and most of them were convicts or other less than savory characters on the run that Heidi selected from the nearby towns, people as desperate to escape as the creatures of the night were desperate to feed. Leading up the festival it had long been understood that everyone was to use the presence of culture to 'feed their intellect and spirit' and that feeding itself for physical sating should come second. Caius had always chided, either in secret or in tidbits openly, that if Aro didn't believe they had souls then it was futile to seek nourishment for them. Of course the other would always correct him in stating that while their souls might not have been present, their spirits and minds were and in transforming they had become superior to humans. On the most recent occasion Aro had almost angrily added that in being superior Caius might try on occasion to act like it. The three nighttime patrons of the arts found the lack of physical nourishment somewhat less unsettling than their guard. But those closest to them, the ones favored, had learned well to find means to imitate their masters' aloofness until the sanguineous orgy had begun.

At the moment, Demitri found his mind wondering back to the newest, latest, and most delectable of those selected for this feast. He had always had Aro's propensity for written word and history, but also Marcus's insatiable appetite for music. He often wandered closest to the gardens when the commissioned flautists or violinists or any other number of musicians would practice their craft during this time. Sadly, on this visit Demitri had been assigned to Aro's villa and that meant a certain lack of symphony. He had hired a pianist and an Aida, but nothing that fit Demitri's palate. He sighed heavily, going over in his mind the three principle reasons he hated opera. Firstly, all of them ended in senseless tragedy which, while it might have made the hero's journey all the more noble to some, just seemed a pathetic waste. Secondly, there was no respite, none whatsoever from the merciless overblown singing in ranges that should have deafened anyone who attended opera more than once a decade. Sopranos were all well and good, but without a small break to something else, without a few moments to enjoy just the instruments, it grated terribly on him. Third . . .

Demitri froze. He heard a most pleasant, most intriguing sound not far away. He slipped closer to it, realizing that while this was clearly a soprano and quite clearly a tragic song, it was lovely. He smiled instinctively, the music reaching through his acute hearing past the percussion in his ears and down along his now quivering spine into the frozen strings of his heart, plucking them delicately. He hesitated and listened more carefully as the voice continued.

"_Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind_," the voice sang. Demitri placed both hands on the wall and closed his eyes as the rest floated to him. "_Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you_!"

(*)

Lucillia felt an enormous swelling of sadness moving through her, missing her mother and remembering all of the songs and wonderful moments they had shared. She slumped against the bench near the organ and softly placed a hand over the ornate carved edge nearest the keys. Tears began to fall more readily and she could hear in the back of her mind the symphony swelling at the right moment just as it had when her mother had happily sung along with her to the old fashioned record of the entire soundtrack. She sobbed a little before continuing.

"_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their season so do we_," she continued. Her voice carried power with it despite the sadness and the shaking. Perhaps, she thought in the back of her mind, if she sang beautifully and loudly enough here where her mother had either been born or spent most of her life, she would hear her most clearly in heaven and sing as well. A small smile crossed her lips at this and she sang the last verse more powerfully than before. "_But please promise me that sometimes you will think_ . . ."

(*)

Demitri waited with his breath held still as she remained silent a moment. She slowly poured out the last '_of_' with soft alternating higher and lower octaves. He stood perfectly still as her voice reached a piano with the lowest octave. When she made an instant crescendo to the highest octave possible and ended with '_me_' he positively felt his heart explode and his mind set ablaze with delight. The nourishment blood gave these creatures was tantamount to more than satisfaction and verged on the pinnacle of sensuality, but this, this was a happiness he had not known in a long time. No, he thought, not ever. The scent of her blood, the intoxication she carried with her, and now this incredible display were almost more pleasure than a god could endure. He sighed and leaned more closely to the wall to feel her heartbeat more fully. He froze once more as the sound of sobbing met him. Was it the song itself? No, it couldn't be simply that, not for this kind of sorrowing. For no reason he could muster, Demitri felt moved to compassion for this creature to a small degree. There was no immediate or physical comfort he could offer, of course, but perhaps distraction would do in its stead. After all, the last thing that his master wanted was for any of the servants of the arts to be inundated by any copious negativity. Demitri moved closer to where she sat in the room, still hidden cleverly behind the wall, and sang what he knew would be short and distracting enough while still not detracting from the beauty of the piece she was clearly feeling. Why should he deny her the response from the phantom she obviously sang to?

"_Brava_! _Brava_! _Bravissima_!" he sang. He heard the girl gasp and look up towards his position. He smirked and then hurried off in the other direction. He had accomplished a great task for now, retrieving the mind of a performer from the shores of the River Styx. He strode away swiftly partly incredibly excited by the encounter and very satisfied that he had touched the mind of so delicate and exotic a creature. He stepped back into the stone stairway leading down into the catacombs, smiling more brightly than ever.

(*)

Lucy searched the room intently for no less than two hours. One of the servants came and told her that the afternoon meal was ready and she had acknowledged it, but not gone. After she was reasonably sure the room was empty, though a nagging sensation in the back of her mind told her otherwise, she left and began diligently searching the nearby hallways and the three adjacent rooms. One was filled with portraits and statues. Some of them looked disturbingly like Vidasempi himself, though they must have been quite old. Some of them had not only Vidasempi alone, but either himself with a young woman or with two other men one older and one much younger and quite light-haired. She shook her head and continued to search for a passageway or a peephole that might have explained the strange singing in reply to hers. That voice, that man, whoever he was, she needed to find him. He had only sung three words, two of them the same, but he had done so with a voice and candor that could've easily been attributed to an angel. It was as if he had not sung at all, but simply breathed naturally with melody in him at all times. The memory was haunting and delightful, growing more irritatingly inviting by the moment.

The sun finally began to set and it hadn't occurred to Lucy that Vidasempi might have been waiting for her at all during the day, nor did it occur to her that she hadn't eaten. She frowned after the hours of searching gave way to exhaustion. She slunk back to her room, trying to remember the patterns of the rooms, the hallways, and think carefully about where a man might have been hiding. Could the voice have been Vidasempi himself? No, this voice was far younger and yet somehow richer and more full. Without even undressing, Lucy climbed onto the bed, her mind spinning with the voice and the incident entirely. Little did Lucy know as she closed her eyes and slipped into a strange slumber, that she was not the first human woman, not even the first in her family, to have fallen under the spell of a vampire's charming voice. Darkness fell over the villa and Lucy found herself praying to hear more, to hear the real music of the night.


	8. Angel of Music

**Chapter 8: Angel of Music**

Later that evening, Lucy wandered around the hallways once more. The Don had arranged a small string quartet to play in the amphitheatre accompanied by a soprano. She lingered by one of the windows and sighed, listening to the music It was lovely and something she had quite imagined when she had envisioned Italy's atmosphere and culture. Beneath her the amphitheatre itself was filled with people dressed in formal attire, clearly other aristocrats and 'shakers' from the area or friends of the Don himself. Her eyes settled on a pair of men that sat on the front row who seemed to be wearing attire most similar to Vidasempi's. One had short, lovely blonde hair and the same pale skin. The other had very dark, almost raven black hair with a sullen expression even with the music playing and, once again, the very same pale skin Vidasempi had. She wondered if they were relatives of some sort and there was an empty seat beside them. Lucy suddenly realized in scanning the crowd, admiring the beautiful lanterns and greenery beneath her, that Giovanni Vidasempi was nowhere to be seen. Was the empty seat meant for him? After a few beats more she sighed and gripped the writing journal, turning back to the hallway to make her way into the library. She gasped and let out a small cry at what met her.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, my dear," Vidasempi said with such a delicate and gentle tone that Lucy almost felt the urge to sigh. He reached out and took her hand carefully, softly stroking the back of her hand comfortingly. "It's such a lovely evening; why don't you come and join me in savoring the music of the night?"

Lucy shuddered a little, remembering the strange voice that had replied to her song in the room with the organ. The Don's features seemed to change, shifting to a slight measure of irritation as she thought of this, but it faded as quickly as it had begun. Lucy sighed and withdrew her hand, shaking her head. "Actually I'm feeling very tired, Don Vidasempi," she admitted.

The man frowned and moved closer, softly touching the side of her forehead with the back of his hand and then cradling her cheek in his cool fingers. "You don't seem to be ill, at least not with something catching or a fever of anykind," he observed. Lucy again felt the urge to sigh at the softness of his touch the and the nurturing tone in his voice. She now also felt the urge to blush and look away in awkward gratitude for such tenderness. He softly reached down and placed the tips of his fingers under her chin. "You are clearly still quite exhausted, but that's not what troubles you. What diverts your mind from the beauty in the villa?"

"I guess I was just remembering . . ." she began. Aro regretted not having hold of her hand at the moment and seeing most clearly what memories were troubling her. In truth there were a few thins that had not made their way clearly into his mind through his gift. He had seen much of her life, her father, the briefest of glimpses of her mother though it had bothered him that she seemed to be trying to blot out memories and thoughts of her mother very clearly. He hadn't been able to clearly make out a face and a name to accompany it. Lucy shook her head. "It's not important. What's concerning me more than anything is that, well, you don't seem to have given me anything to work on yet. Why would you have me here without a commission in mind?"

He chuckled and reached out with both hands, grasping hers once more and squeezing it with grandfatherly affection. "My dear, I had wanted to let you get settled for three days before giving you the specifics of what I desire from you," he said. Lucy noted that his tone changed to twinge of lust with the word desire. Whether this was because of his excessive passion for written word or the notion that he wanted a tryst with her (something very likely given his cultural upbringing) Lucy could not tell at the moment. Aro frowned a little inwardly at realizing he could still not gather anything about her mother from her and that was clearly what was troubling her. _I shall inquire in the morning, make an appearance at breakfast this time_, he thought. _That will help ease her mind and add to my own_. "Would this help you feel more at ease?" he asked as he withdrew a formal-looking scroll of parchment from his jacket. It was wrapped in a red ribbon and sealed with a wax insignia bearing the family crest emblazoned on his amulet.

Lucy carefully accepted it and waited for him to nod, giving her permission to open it. She sighed with a little relief and smiled at the formal request for a number of poems, each with respective and very detailed list of the commissions she was to compose while at the villa. This first set of commissions was to be completed within a fortnight, or two-weeks in layman's terms. She looked back up at him as she rolled the parchment back into a scroll and wrapped the ribbon around it a few times, slipping it into the writing journal at the back. It would lose its round shape doing this, but Lucy didn't care about keeping the scroll itself in pristine condition and clearly neither did her benefactor. He gave her another nod and offered her his arm. She sighed and reached out with one hand, placing it on his forearm and gently pushing it downward.

"I'm so sorry, Don Vidasempi, and I don't want to be rude, but I just don't think I could enjoy the music right now," she admitted. He nodded slowly and placed a hand over hers with a great comforting measure of understanding seeming to emit from his palm and fingertips into her. She looked down and cleared her throat. "I believe your seat is waiting for you, though."

"It can wait," he replied with a broad grin. "As you can see, my brothers are delighting in the music just as well without me," he gestured towards the two she had fixated on earlier and looked at him in confusion. He chuckled. "Different mothers, I'm afraid, but we all share a common blood."

"Oh," she replied softly. "You're all so . . . beautiful. Uh, I mean, handsome, if that's not inappropriate for me to say."

"No more inappropriate than an expression of deep and genuine appreciation of a magnificent portrait," Vidasempi replied with a wink. "May I escort you to your room, then? I dread the thought of you fainting on the way there."

"Oh, I'm not that exhausted or delicate, Singore'," she replied finally blushing and looking away. He patted her hand gently and nodded, softly touching the side of her face one last time. "I thank you; for the commission, the opportunity, the offer for the music . . . all of it."

"You are most welcome, my dear," he replied smoothly. "It is such a treat to nurture the artist in their green blossoming age. Such succulent works, such delicious unbiased creations come from those that are not aged and embittered by the professional worlds. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, I think," she admitted, fidgeting with the edge of her journal. She smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear.

He bowed his head softly to her and bid her goodnight as she turned and hurried back down the hallway. He smiled and sighed heavily himself. This one, this delicate and mysterious creature would have the most unique and arguably sweetest blood of any that would be feasted on in the celebration. He began to think about how wonderful all of this would be, how diverting from the terrible loss of Sulpicia, as he made his way down the stairs leading out into the courtyard and then to the amphitheatre. Marcus turned and noticed him first, nodding to him. Caius turned and scowled at him gesturing to the diva as if scolding their unspoken leader for interrupting a performance and coming in during the middle of a piece. These little lapses in manners and protocol were irritating Caius almost as much as Aro's determination to have manners and protocol at the forefront of this festival. He took a seat beside them and grinned more brightly. If nothing else, irritating Caius was worth it.

(*)

Lucy wandered back into the room with the organ and sat down on the bench, sighing and setting the journal on the key coverings. She looked around at the dimly lit room and shook her head. There was a great deal of work to be done for these commissions and now she was feeling a little unsure that she would be able to finish all of them. She was feeling too much conflict here, too many reminders of the loss of her dear mother coupled with the incredible finery. And then there was Vidasempi himself. He was a curious man with exceptionally polished manners, an irregularly tender and affectionate nature, and such a gentle touch and demeanor alongside a vast vocabulary that she was unsure of where exactly he must have been raised. The thought that perhaps the more important question was to be sure of when he was born crossed her mind. Italy was part of the more ancient world, not the very oldest, but fairly close to the oldest parts of modern civilized society. He was beautiful, unbelievably beautiful, and now that she had seen his brothers she was sure that his entire family was just as handsome. Still, that was more of a confusing mystery, not an inspiration. She needed something, some greater source of inspiration than just the gold Claddagh knobs, the ornate paintings, the incredible organ, and all the other testaments to the wealth of culture that surrounded her. She needed a muse, an angel.

"_Father once spoke of an angel, I used to dream he'd appear_," she sang, hoping to summon some spirit of inspiration with this. She stood and turned, leaning against the side of the organ as she continued. "_Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here_." She moved closer to the wall where a large set of thick, velvet curtains hid a large portrait. "_Here in this room, he calls me softly. Somewhere inside, hiding_," she continued, her voice carrying across the room and indeed this whole wing of the villa like a haunting spirit itself. "_Somehow I know he's always with me. He, the unseen genius_."

(*)

Demitri had grown very tired of the diva quickly and announced with a touch of his hand against Aro's shoulder that he was going off to make his rounds. Aro nodded quickly and turned back to the music with an almost proud sneer at the youth's lack of appreciation. Jane watched Demitri carefully as he slipped from the crowd and hurried back into the villa. He groaned inwardly and begged whatever forces were watching over their kind that the next night would see Caius's chosen musicians or dancers instead of that insufferable Norse-themed drivel. Why was everyone who pretended to love opera having some unnatural affair with any part of the Wagner Ring Cycle? It was nothing short of lionizing; no one truly liked it, but without praising it one seemed uncultured. Why? Nothing about it was uplifting or nourishing to the soul! He said a small prayer of gratitude that at least the diva hadn't started _Nessun Dorme_. His expression fell and he groaned even more loudly as the dreaded 'None Shall Sleep' did indeed begin its first few chords. What was a woman doing singing it anyway?

He scoffed and tried to head as far away from the din as possible. He moved back into the hidden passageways and headed for the room with the organ. He could play, not very well, but he could play and cleanse his palate from the horrid aria. As he arrived at the doorway behind the portrait, cloaked in velvet curtains, he heard that same haunting voice. He halted and drank in the beautiful sound. It was another piece from 'The Phantom', another song that spoke to him so deeply. He sighed and leaned against the wall as she finished the final 'it frightens me'. He quickly slipped through the entrance behind the painting and hesitated, drawn to her scent all the more as he hid behind the velvet curtain. He grinned and began to reply to her plea for an 'Angel of Music'.

"_Flattering child you shall know me. See why in shadow I hide_," he sang, his voice and breath replacing the urge to slake his lust with her blood. It seemed to be a suitable substitute at the moment. "_Look at your face in the mirror. I am there inside!_"

(*)

Lucy smiled at this. The voice, the one from earlier. It was lovely and perhaps she would finally have some inspiration in meeting a spirit as fascinated by the story of misunderstood monster beneath the Opera Populaire as she had been. She turned around a few times, trying gage where the voice had come from. She realized that the velvet curtains were stirring ever so slightly. She smiled all the more and moved closer to the curtains, just a few feet away now.

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory_," she sang, completely enthralled by this notion. "_Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me strange angel_."

"_I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music_," the voice sang as the curtains behind her shifted. She could barely hear the cloth stirring and soft footsteps approaching. "_I am your Angel of Music_."

"Who are you?" Lucy asked, placing a hand at her chest in shock. She stared at the young man in amazement as a charming smile crossed his features. He opened his mouth to speak and Lucy could sense a flirtatious answer in the form of sarcasm forming in him. It had fascinated her parents that she had usually been able to discern what words people were forming before they spoke. She rolled her eyes and groaned before pointing at him. "Don't tell me you're my angel of music; who are you?"

"You're a little on edge for a lovely young lady in the midst of all this finery particularly after such a stunning display of vocal prowess," Demitri replied smoothly. He could tell the girl had her guard up and while that was a great advantage for both her and his not infuriating Aro by making any kind of social advance towards the youngest and quite possibly favorite of those that were to be the guests of honor at the Feast of Blood, it was irritating to think that he hadn't a prayer or sway over this timid young beauty. He calmly placed one hand behind his back and the held to the side of jacket with the other emphasizing his genteel presence. "You are the lyricist Lucillia Darcella Camloe, are you not?"

"I am," Lucy replied with a slight tone of anger. "But you have not answered my question and addressing a young lady without an introduction either made personally or by another is rude."

"My apologies," Demitri said with a graceful bow. His mind buzzed with how best to introduce himself while keeping the noble façade. It occurred to him that no matter what name he gave her, if Aro saw her memories every evening as was his custom with those that were marked for slaughter, he would know Demitri's face and voice without the slightest need of any nomenclature at all. Aro might applaud honesty, though, he thought. He smiled and placed the hand grasping the jacket over his heart. "I am Demitri. I am responsible for much of the finer details of the villa that his Honor cannot attend to himself."

"Oh," Lucy said blushing slightly. "You are his man's man, his valet, then? Or are you more of a butler of some kind?"

"The more appropriate term is valet given my duties I think," Demitri replied with a wink. "But I might also be considered an apprentice given the notion that these villas belong to the family and I must learn the details of caring for it in the most delicate and strict manners possible." The gleam in the youth's black eyes seemed to recede into a deep well of intellect and passion. Lucy shook herself, but still felt as though she were dreaming. He was incredibly handsome and carried the same air of ageless elegance that Vidasempi did. She suddenly noticed the same golden amulet with the family crest around his neck as well and gasped.

"Wait, you're not just a servant of some sort . . . you're, you're a relative!" she exclaimed, pointing at the amulet.

Demitri stared at her in confusion for a moment and then looked down at what she was pointing at. His heart sank a little and he contemplated correcting her but then thought of the rebuttal in her curiosity about the presence of the amulet and trying to say that all of Vidasempi's closest companions wore them would make any human suspicious. Humans feared secret societies and covenants for their potential to create organized havoc and do more efficient harm. No, it was easier for her to think that he was some kind of distant relation who had been given employment here. He cleared his throat and promised himself that he would spend what he could of the day with her and then promptly tell his master about all the finer points and swear to never speak with her or see her again. He nodded to her, sighing. "I am his nephew," he explained.

"His brother's child or his sister's?" Lucy asked, hoping to vicariously have more information on the mystery of her newest patron.

"Sister's," he replied. "His only sister and I am her unfortunate only offspring."

"I see," Lucy said, feeling a little more at ease with this news and being in the presence of something that confirmed that the Don was a little more normal in having family. "Older sister or younger?"

Demitri gave her a side glance and grinned brightly. She was awfully curious for a human which wasn't uncommon for the ones selected for their feeding, but it was unusual to press for such details from someone she barely knew. He sighed and moved a few steps closer. "Younger, but only by a few moments," Demitri replied. "She has long since passed, but I remained in her place."

"I'm so sorry," Lucy said with a small gasp. To lose one's twin was a horror few humans understood and Lucy could not imagine the heartache a male twin would feel in the loss of his sister to childbirth. The one thing that separated her from him, her womanhood and gift of giving life were what had ended her own . . . terribly tragic. She folded her hands neatly in front of her and frowned. "I've lost my mother quite recently. It hasn't even been a full year."

"I am deeply sorry for such a loss," Demitri offered with genuine concern. "But if it is not too bold or impertinent for me to say, mourning does not seem to have marred any of your virtues. She must be very proud to see you so strong and beautiful from where she rests."

"I," Lucy began. Those words were touching and so well-formed. He was clearly refined, but Lucy suddenly got the feeling that the refinement was the result of years and years of practice. In fact, this kind of refinement and speech were more fitting of a man that had been tutored and experienced for centuries or at least in the most grand of the centuries past. She glanced away. "Thank you."

"I should let you get on to your own quarters for the evening," Demitri said with a wink and a slight bow. Lucy frowned a little. It had been so lovely to see and converse with this intriguing gentleman. "Goodnight then, Miss Camloe."

"Wait, when will I see you again?" Lucy asked hurriedly.

Demitri grinned and headed towards the door, fluidly taking the handle. "Perhaps tomorrow," he said grinning. "But if not, this interlude was most satisfying."

"I . . ." Lucy stammered. Demitri slipped out of the room without another word. Lucy huffed and frowned. She had her commissions now, but she needed to make sure that from this point on she had her 'Angel of Music'.


End file.
